


Eighteen Ninety-one

by Solitaryleh



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Angst, Can be read as Holmes/Moriarty, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-16 03:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21500893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitaryleh/pseuds/Solitaryleh
Summary: My thoughts are cluttered while I recall the events that took place in the FallsToday, unlike my usual demeanor that my readers has known me; Once again I am in the state. It seems it is a pattern.I cannot recall all the details today, but what I took more importance is the fact the raging torrents of Reichenbach has calmed.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Eighteen Ninety-one

Melancholy music filled the private quarters of the fiddle player that are muffled and barely heard in the cold empty halls of Chaldea. Inside the aforementioned place, one can see the adjustments and improvement the current lodger has made although it is still a façade to his beloved suite which he calls home. Holmes absentmindly scrapes the strings on his strad, as the Ruler twirls around the small room in agitated manner. Swiftly, like an experienced dancer, he gracefully avoids the books, papers, and other objects that are scattered on the carpeted floor. On his right from ceiling-to-floor are his prized catalogues and volumes although instead they are information about the Servants he met rather than the people in the detective’s time. Just right from the door are a group of bullet pucks that forms the letters “V.R” (He borrowed the gun from a particular Archer). There is two old-fashioned armchairs and a stained sofa that was graciously gifted by Da Vinci on his birthday to make his own quarters more lively and closer to 221b.

Yes all of these does not suffice him. This is not Baker Street. This is not home. No one can replace good old Watson. _Ah Watson, how can I live without you?_

_Drip…Drip…Drip…_

No mysteries, no crimes, and no cases to suffice the racing machine he calls his brain. Outside of the Organization, humanity has ceased to exist. When there is no one to commit a crime, then there is no crime to solve. This temporary existence “Servant” is a bliss and a curse but in the months he resides this has become more unbearable even to a strong willed individual, such as our detective.

_Drip…Drip…Drip…_

Even the needles, the many stimulants and narcotic substances both from his time and in the 21st century has to offer him, yet none has satisfy Holmes. A myriad of old and today’s pleasures alike, he partook them all yet none has satisfy Holmes. The Singularities, events, fellow Servants, even the so called “cases” yet none has satisfy Holmes. There is no one and event that can hold a candle to him. Except-

_Silence_

A placid smile creeps on his lips. How a fool he was! Holmes gently puts his strad and bow on the sofa taking care not to make any noise. Today is the date isn’t? He cursed himself for being too gloomy for the occasion after making the necessary preparation are in correct places. An occasion he alone has invented himself after reading through the publications that featured his friend and biographer’s writing (It wasn’t the Strand alone that published his adventures). The young Master is currently away in a mission together with majority of Servants; Mashu and Da Vinci obviously in the command room which they assured him, with Master’s consent, to give him this leave from the present singularity so he can have the whole remainder of the day for himself.

In the same day, _he_ also asked for an absence. It was perfect, like Fate is in favor with Sherlock Holmes.

James Moriarty, the only fragment that reminds him that he is in fact Sherlock Holmes. The Professor is his bitter rival to the many eyes of the public but he is what reminds him of his home, his beloved gas lit London and its foggy skies; the cesspool of pleasure and terror, poverty and bounty, generosity and injustice. The banters, the petty fights, the tirades they have is very different from the events that took place in that fearful cauldron called Reichenbach. In this case, Holmes considered (even for a short time) his temporary existence a bliss in this era. The things he wanted to say, wanted to feel, wanted to hear, all of it are fulfilled by Moriarty simply by existing with him. They can finally play the Game once again, his opponent alive and sinister as ever.

Moriarty is the anchor that kept Holmes from spiraling to the void.

If the Professor feel the same way, Holmes do not know. He is simply a mere flea, a nuisance to the schemes the Old Spider weaves. Does he consider the fleeting encounters a pleasure? He does not let the detective any hint or word about it. Yet Holmes knows Moriarty, he is afterall his other half, his stimulant, his addiction. Moriarty is his rival yet he is-

Holmes shakes his head. He realized he is returning in a full circle, sidetracking to what he has originally plan to do in the occasion. The detective stood in the middle of the room and only realized he has already replaced his instrument on the sofa. Holmes threw a glance on the magazine clippings of The Final Problem, charred by age and use. They are scattered above on one of his books about beekeeping and his own penned monograms about study of different tobacco ashes.

Today’s the day, the reason for his contemplating about the Professor these past days. It was risky, foolish even, Holmes himself thought of this as a very outrageous decision.

Watson would had been proud

His inverness cape has been neglected on its coat rack, even his gloves are never bothered to be wore. He might as well continue with no clothes if he forgot to bring _it_ , the possible peace offering he can provide but it was foolish of him. If Holmes will call a truce between the rivals, would it change the Game? If they both are in good terms now, if it is possible given Moriarty’s hatred, would it change the Game? Shrugging all these thoughts, Holmes left them in his room and glances over the empty hallways that are not usually devoid of the bustling noises of Servants and the young Master running around with embers in their arms. The empty hallways almost made Holmes longed for such activities he usually find bothersome. But those are in the past, today he will find comfort or possible more pain in his heart, if machines have hearts.

Do Moriarty even have a heart?

His hand clutches on the cold doorknob, he have no strength to turn it. It was unlocked. There are some noises inside created by the occupant. He grumbles as he accidently knock books from its shelves in his wake. What it seems to be an eternity, the accursed old fashioned door (which is very unlike to the other servants’ sliding doors) finally opened.

And closed.

“Archer” Holmes spoke, still clutching the doorknob. “Moriarty”

He made sure his right foot wedged the door, this trifle alone will be not be allowed to miss his only opportunity in all his days in Chaldea. Servants are temporary existence indeed, one day he or Moriarty may disappear without any warning once their contractor sever their contacts. The person behind the door peeks from the crack his foot made.

“What now? If you _deduce_ once again that I’m the mastermind to another singularity, get lost! A true schemer does not repeat his own mistake again!”

Ignoring his word, Holmes forced his way inside which Moriarty in reply harshly stumped his foot.

“How persistent can you be, Holmes? What do you need?!” He put more pressure on his foot while threating him with a fist. The other person does not show any pain.

“Come now, professor do not let the door a barrier to our possible reconciliation”

“Reconciliation your ass! I had enough of the oh so great detective meddling my schemes, I will ask you once again, what do you need so you can stop pestering me?”

Holmes’s usual humorous nature fades as Moriarty flung the door to admit him inside. The aged Professor noted Holmes that he has some pressing matters to discuss and has no time for their usual bartering.

“Two minutes” His tone is sharp.

The detective’s eyes glances on the neatly battered books at his right which covers almost the three walls of his humble quarters; showing that Moriarty is neater than himself when it comes to housekeeping. An unused makeshift bed is placed parallel to the door. There are also papers, maps, telegrams, a phonograph, and more tomes of the leather bound books that has subjects from mathematics to philosophy, all of them are placed on a polished ebony table. They are all well read by the owner, those are the only furniture in the room that are very different from the usual quarters.

Holmes gingerly seated himself on the matching chair without being offered. In reply, Moriarty grumbled to himself as he slump himself to the bed that is facing the detective.

“Well?”

Half shut, the Ruler’s gaze fell this time on the man in front of him. His hair is messier than he remember, there are more stray strand of hair that covers the wrinkled face of the man which reminds himself of his Gray collar outfit. His eyes are piercing like a predator, both curious and furious on the sudden intrusion the detective has made. His wrinkles and lines are unchangeable, he wouldn’t be that old…

“Holmes” It came out more of a snarl. “If you are only here to look at my room, there is something called personal place which I wager your doctor is trying to tell you in numerous occasions”

“This will be brief”

“I hope so, Ruler. I specially asked Master for a dayoff so that I can take a break from _you_ ”

As he thought, Moriarty still has his anger and hatred towards the person who has disbanded the Organization. It was etched in his spirit origin that no writing can change. He must best Sherlock Holmes in all ways possible, to repay the humiliation in the falls and in raveling the web of criminal network which he weave for years. There is nothing to stop his hatred, even costing the whole planet is nothing for him. This is how Moriarty is, he cannot simply change how he was created just like Holmes, his role and personality is already written in the beginning. A curse of characters from pages penned by human authors. His curse of being the only one in his world, no one could understand even his friend Watson. It was tiresome, but now it is in the past. James Moriarty, their time is brief but now the Grail gave him the chance to resume their Game. The sweet scent of a well done crime is what the Hound lusts.

After a moment of silent, Holmes raises his head. “Let us talk like the gentlemen we are shall we?”

The only response from the professor is a grunt.

“In two minutes, forget what our sides are. We are simply two intellectuals in the same plane yet never shares the other’s perspective. You may laugh, you can also jest but I know you in the back of my hand. There is time for dueling but today is not the time”

Moriarty eyed the detective. This time it is his turn to observe Holmes. A single glance has told him hundred things about the man in front of him that has hurried to his quarters (Although Holmes has a habit of being disheveled at any given time). He did not put on his coat, not even his white gloves. He was starting to get irritated every second he does not reveal about the ‘pressing matters’ to Moriarty. There is no pipe he noticed. What his business, Holmes has already know what to say in advance. Dispersing all the things he noticed, with a sigh, Moriarty faced him.

“Honestly this maybe our first serious exchange of words since Shinjuku, forgetting –for now- our differences and side” Holmes started.

“What you are trying to imply, Holmes?”

“This” He procured a small object from his right pocket, Moriarty’s eyes widen. Could it be? The one he has lost in the swirling waters of Reichenbach?

“Indeed” Almost like reading his mind, Holmes smiled in sardonic fashion. “That is all, if there are any questions on this show and tell I have made”

“First of all, those dates, figures, people, and places inscribed inside is already in the past” He bitterly laugh. “If you are still trying to pin me again to half of crimes in London, you are 128 years late. Did you came here and waste my precious time in this petty show of your talents?”

“It is not for that purpose I came here, James Moriarty” There is a hint of angst and bitterness in the Detective’s tone while he harshly grip his other arm. “Is this what you are? Still chained to your-our- writer? Have you consider changing your view? You’re better than this Moriarty”

You’re better than this

_Drip…Drip…Drip…_

Nothing is changed in the Professor’s dark face. He is still mad with rage in this sudden visit.

“I am certainly better than last time. I have grown to be more cunning and thick skinned towards to you because I have learned my lesson. There is no hope of reconciliation for such an individual as me, Holmes. I don’t have a clue (and if I do have, I don’t care) of what you are implying to me. If a truce is what you seek I’m afraid and happy to announce there will be none” He stood up, opening the door and puckered his lips to the direction. “Now good day Mr. Holmes”

Crestfallen, Holmes sighs and lifting himself from the chair, he turns to the door.

Before he even stepped outside, he quickly leaned forward to Moriarty as he pass him. He is eyeing of any emotion beneath those cold calculating eyes. Moriarty has tried to push him away but the man already stepped back and closed the door. He felt Holmes’s hand trace behind his back.

Sherlock Holmes felt his knees buckled before feeling his own hands crawling to his already disheveled hair. He sat there besides the door while warm tears flow freely from his eyes to his chin. He swallowed the sobs that threaten to escape his throat. He could not controlled himself, the bottled feelings he has long has sealed tight already escaped, the long fingers find its way to his face as he tear his hair while the last words of Moriarty lingers in his mind. The Calculating Machine slowly destroying himself and eventually leaving an empty husk of a fool. _Watson…Mycroft…Mrs. Hudson…Lestrade….Everyone_. Now that Moriarty too has become a stranger to him, there is nothing he could call home. All the frustration he carefully has tried to sink in his unconsciousness came back to him. It was too much. Too much even for Sherlock Holmes. It was too much. His sobs has escaped his lips, he was thankful that he was alone in this part of the Organization or he’ll risk being ridicule of Servants and the staff. It was too much.

He bitterly mourned for himself. Not even his strad and the needles can help ease the despair he is currently experiencing. Holmes curled himself to a ball while gently rocking himself, his vision already obscured by the tears and snot he has created to himself. Let Moriarty see him like this, he do not care. Let him jest, let him laugh, let him tell this embarrassing display to every person he met. He do not care.

_Silence_

In the middle of the harsh torrents of the Falls, Holmes has finally found his peace and silence when he raised his head and saw those cold eyes studying him. It was Moriarty, sitting beside him while flashing the object in front of him. There is no hint of humor or cruelty beneath those Reichenbach-colored eyes of his. He inched closer, feeling the Professor’s familiar cologne and the smell of gunpowder. Moriarty didn’t moved away. Holmes has wiped his face with the offered handkerchiefhe gave yet no words of gratitude has escaped from his aching throat. The Falls has returned on its calm non-violent tides for now, the Professor stood up and walks away from Sherlock Holmes without exchanging any word to him.

He was clearly shaken by the sudden action of Moriarty. It took him a great effort to lift himself and clean his face in the nearby comfort room. The silken purple handkerchief with the owner’s initials, this he keep inside his pocket. In doing so, he noticed there is a writing of the Professor just in the top left corner which is written by a pen with blue ink, he deduced that it has been made in a hurry. Two words are already enough to make all the humiliation he has done earlier forgettable.

Thank You

“Happy Birthday, James”

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my best work but I like the prompt I had in mind when I first wrote the first fic. On this day, in November 26 1893, Final Problem is first published in US. So basically our fanon birthday date for Moriarty. As for the title 1891, it is the year Moriarty died in Reichenbach Falls.


End file.
